


Arrivals and Departures

by mishallaneously



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-08
Updated: 2014-12-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 16:53:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2739926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mishallaneously/pseuds/mishallaneously
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The awful ordeal of taking a flight to a meeting in Seattle is made tolerable or even a bit enjoyable when Dean Winchester meets a stranger in the airport.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arrivals and Departures

Dean couldn’t believe he had to fly all the way out to Seattle for a meeting with his publisher. Wasn’t part of the whole “being a writer” thing not having to leave his apartment for dumb meetings? But no, the new illustrator wanted to meet in person. Dean had begged Charlie to just find someone else, but she didn’t budge. She thought it would be good for all of them, the publishers, the illustrator, and Dean to map out the story together. So, a meeting was scheduled- a meeting almost 2,000 miles away. Dean threatened to find a new publisher. He was met with Charlie’s obnoxious laughter. When he heard a snort, Dean hung up. Wiggling his way out of it proved impossible, his threats were empty, and Dean found himself packing a bag and searching his cabinets for something to get him through the flight.

“Dean, c’mon man, you don’t want to be late for your flight.” Sam nudged Dean out of his thoughts. Oh, right. They were here. At the airport. Dean gulped.

“Y’know, maybe I’ll call Charlie and see if we can reschedule it to next week. Then I can drive up there and I won’t die on this hunk of metal. Cause I mean, Sam, it’s just not natural, it’s-“

“Dean, will you shut up?” Sam stared at Dean pointedly. Dean could see the corner of his mouth twitching. The bastard was trying to suppress a smile. He thought this shit was funny.

“This is just hilarious to you isn’t it, Sammy? Well fuck you. I’ll do it, just cause this illustrator has ‘a very tight schedule,’” he imitated Charlie, using a pair of rather aggressive air quotes. “But if I die,” Dean grabbed Sam’s shoulder and pulled his face close,“I’m going to come back as a ghost and haunt the shit out of you.”

“I’m sure. But, Dean, like I told you, the chances of you dying in a-“

“Not another word, Sam! I don’t want to hear your statistics crap. Planes aren’t natural. I’m going to die and you’re going to feel so damn guilty.” Dean held up his hand to silence Sam’s rebuttal. “Not another word, remember? Now goodbye, I’m leaving.” He slung his computer bag over his shoulder, grabbed his small carry-on, and leaned over to ruffle Sam’s hair one last time. He had one leg out of the car when he turned back to Sam. “And if I die, take care of the car, don’t you disrespect her with any of your awful music and modern technology. Baby runs on the classics, Sam.”

“Dean.” Sam said, motioning to his watch.

“Right, right. I’ll call you during my layover at LAX.”

“Quit stalling, for god’s sake.” Dean grinned at his brother and slammed the door, cutting off Sam’s exasperated muttering something about how he “should’ve gotten Bobby to drop his sorry ass off” or something.

Dean’s nerves really started to get to him once he passed the ungodly line at security. He swung by a bar and ordered a glass of Jack to ease his jittering fingers. The familiar heat in his stomach comforted him momentarily.

The anticipation of the flight was killing him and he pulled out the rough draft of his book to pass the time, to get his mind off flying. He briefly considered that maybe an airport bar wasn’t the right setting to edit his children’s storybook, but Dean brushed off the thought. He immersed himself in his notebook. The main idea was sound; a story about a misfit angel finding himself, but Dean couldn’t get the big picture right. He didn’t have characters outlined; there was barely a plot. Dean had warned Charlie about how unprepared he was for the meeting; he’d been procrastinating after all. But it only fueled Charlie’s argument, the collaboration would benefit Dean, it would hurry along the publication of his highly anticipated next story. Dean had been struggling for months with the story and couldn’t find it in himself to give up. It reminded him of his mom. Even throughout her death, his dad’s descent into alcoholism, and lately, the bitter disappointment his dad felt toward him and his chosen profession, Dean still believed in her mantra. Angels were watching over him.

Feeling a little bit better, Dean boarded his plane and settled into his seat. He popped in a sleeping pill and closed his eyes, ready for the two-hour flight to Los Angeles.

Dean awoke to the flight attendant shaking him awake.

“Wha?” He managed, wiping the trail of drool from his mouth with the back of his hand. Ah, the notorious Dean Winchester charm.

“Sir, we’ve landed in Los Angeles. I’m going to have to ask you to exit the plane now.” She kindly ignored the whole drool thing.

“Oh, shit.” He glanced up at her. “We made it?” The flight attendant chuckled good-naturedly and nodded with a smile.

Dean exited the plane as quickly as he could, abandoning any attempt at nonchalance. He wanted off of that godforsaken death trap.

After he had called Sam to notify him of his safe landing and suffered through the “I told you so’s,” Dean set off through the terminal to find somewhere to spend his three hour layover. He wandered aimlessly around until a little bar squished in between a Brookstone and a McDonalds caught his eye.

Harvelle’s Roadhouse was quaint, it had that small town bar type feel. The pool tables were well loved, the dart boards had seen better days, and a musky smell clung to the walls. Dean momentarily forgot he was in an airport. He walked over to the bar, it was completely empty aside from a man tucked into a book in the far corner. Dean pulled out the stool several spaces over and sunk down in a heap. He was still groggy from the sleeping pill and the whole flying ordeal in general. He leaned his head on the cool wood of the bar and let out a soft sigh.

Someone clearing their throat loudly startled Dean from his rest. “This is a bar. Do you want a drink or would you prefer I get you Prince Charming to plant a wet one on you?” Dean lifted his head slowly, eyes re-adjusting to the light. The perky blonde waitress looked down at him, a hand on her hip. Dean could hear her foot tapping impatiently.

“Who needs a prince when I got you?” Dean winked at her. She simply raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Dean coughed a little, covering up the uncomfortable silence. “Um, yeah, just get me whatever’s good?” She turned on her heel and busied herself behind the bar.

Dean decided he might as well be productive so that the meeting wasn’t a complete bust. He may have told Charlie he was further along with the story than he actually was. Dean pulled out his notebook and dismally stared at how blank the pages were. It was then that he felt the unmistakable sensation that he was being watched. He swiveled around in his seat and locked eyes with the man sitting in the corner of the bar. His face was still partially obscured by the book, but Dean could see blue eyes and dark, almost black hair sticking up in all directions. The guy was wrapped in an ugly, ill fitting trench coat that seemed absurd for the always sunny Los Angeles weather. Once they locked eyes the guy immediately became interested in his book again. Dean smiled softly. This was some grade school shit. He set his notebook on the bar, grabbed his beer and slid into the seat next to him.

“Whatcha reading there?” The guy turned slowly toward him. He cocked an eyebrow at Dean, appraising him. He tilted the book cover so Dean could read it. “Oh hey, Cat’s Cradle? And here I thought your taste in books would be as bad as your taste in coats.”

“I beg your pardon,” the man began, his voice deep and scratchy, “but do you make a habit of insulting people you’ve just met?”

Dean shrugged. “You’re right, that was rude. My bad. But, man, I love Vonnegut. I’d give anything to write like him.”

The man carefully marked his page and set the book down on the bar. “You’re a writer, then?”

“Well, I guess technically,” Dean rubbed his neck distractedly, focusing on anything other than the stranger’s intense stare. “But if you ask my dad the answer is more along the lines of a disappointed sigh.” Dean saw the guy fidgeting uncomfortably with his book and he flashed him his best smile. “Everyone’s a critic, right?” The guy nodded.

Dean reached over and grabbed the book from him. His posture stiffened as Dean handled it. “Relax Smeagol, I’m not going to steal your precious. Just wanted to see what part you were on.” Dean was met with blank stare, the man blinked, head tilted in confusion. “Oh, c’mon you don’t know Lord of the Rings? The Hobbit?”

“Sadly, no.” The guy ran a fidgety hand through his unruly hair.

"I guess you aren’t my literary soul mate after all. You never watched the movies or anything?”

“I’m not big on popular culture, my mother never cared much for television or fiction, really.” The man frowned slightly as he reminisced. “She believed it was sin if I remember correctly.”

“Well that right there is a tragedy. A moment of silence for your wasted childhood.” Dean bowed his head solemnly. The guy smirked.

“I’m Dean, by the way.” Dean stuck out his hand, the guy contemplated it for half a beat before reaching out with his own.

“Castiel.” They shook hands, but neither let go. Dean liked the rough feeling of his hand.

“Yikes, that’s a mouthful. What’d your mom do, find all her kids’ names in that dusty old Jesus book?”

“Something like that.” Castiel smiled wistfully. “It’s an angel’s name. The angel of Thursday.”

“Well, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Castiel, Angel of Thursday.” Dean grinned at him and let go of their still clasped hands. “I don’t think my name has a fancy meaning.” He added with a shrug.

“If I’m not mistaken, I think it’s Latin for ‘leader.’” Castiel stated matter-of-factly.

“Dammit, Cas, for a second there I thought you were cool.” He threw his hands up in mock exasperation.

“Knowing Latin isn’t considered cool?” Cas asked, eyes wide and genuine. Dean couldn’t stare into them too long for fear that he could never tear his eyes away. God, had all this children’s book writing turned him into some kind of sap? Or maybe he had a soft spot for blue-eyed strangers with awful bedhead and giant trenchcoats.

 

“Nah man, I’m kidding with you. You can educate me on Latin whenever you want.” Dean clapped a friendly hand on Cas’ shoulder.

“What brings you here anyway, Dean?”

“Ah, y’know, just wanted to spend my Thursday in an airport bar. I’m a regular here, ain’t that right, barkeep?” Dean called over his shoulder at the blonde bartender. She rolled her eyes and gave him the finger. Castiel looked confused again. “Kidding, man. I’m kidding. I’ve got a three hour layover and I’m killing time before I inevitably die on the next plane.”

“You’re not a fan of flying?” Castiel inquired, nursing his beer.

“Dude, you have no idea. Me and flying, that’s like, Superman and Kryptonite. Planes freak me out… hence the alcohol.” Dean gestured to his beer. “And, just in case that doesn’t do the trick, I’ve got my secret weapon.” Dean pulled the bottle of sleeping pills out of his pocket and set it on the bar. Castiel pursed his lips.

“That cannot be a healthy combination.” He leaned over Dean, took the sleeping pills and began scrutinizing the label, squinting his eyes. After a minute he set the pills down in an exasperated huff and reached inside his jacket pocket. He rummaged around for a second until he pulled out a glasses case. Once the thick black frames had settled on Castiel’s nose, he reached for the bottle again. Dean swallowed hard, he was a sucker for glasses. “Here,” he said once he had thoroughly read the directions, “it says right here not to take with an alcoholic beverage. So, if you don’t mind, I’ll be holding onto these for the time being.”

“Cas, wait, that’s not fair! It’s fine, I do it all the time!” Dean whined, fearing how he would get through his next flight without the bottle.

“Dean.” Cas stressed his name and Dean stopped his outburst, settling instead for a bit of exasperated muttering. “There are plenty of healthier ways to occupy the time between both of our flights, options that will not end in your demise.” He placed the bottle of pills and his glasses back into his trenchcoat. Dean was beginning to think the pockets were bottomless.

“And what do you suggest, Mr. Angel of Thursday?”

With a bit of coercion from his new friend, Dean left the bar. The two of them gathered their things, paid their tabs, and made their way to the Brookstone next door. Dean was surprised when Cas stood up to find that he was almost the same height. The trenchcoat was so big it had swallowed him up, hiding the fact that he was a tall, and leanly muscled man. The tight black sweater and collared shirt combo he wore underneath the coat complimented those features nicely, if Dean did say so himself. Dean also realized his sense of style wasn’t as bad as the trenchcoat suggested.

They entered the store and Dean immediately beelined for the massage chairs. He insisted that Cas should go first to see if it could loosen him up a bit. Cas didn’t find it as funny as Dean. After Cas’ stint in the chair, Dean took a turn, leaving Cas to wander around and explore all the high-techy goodness Brookstone has to offer.

Dean’s five minutes were up quickly and he went to find Cas. He was intently studying some of weird workout accessories when Dean popped up behind him. Dean leaned over Cas’ shoulder and spoke softly into his ear, “You might want to save some browsing for the Skymall magazine on the plane.” Cas jumped and accidentally banged his shoulder into Dean’s jaw. He apologized profusely, but Dean conceded that it was probably mostly his fault anyway. They perused the aisles a bit longer, long enough for Dean to find the personal massagers.

“Hey, Cas. Let’s play the game ‘Vibrator or Massager?’” Dean held up a bright pink, cylindrical looking thing. Cas then had a coughing fit, probably caused from choking on his spit. “Yeah, you’re right,” Dean said, studying the thing in his hands, “it’s probably both.” He then turned it on and placed it on his neck. He let out a truly pornographic moan. “Oh Cas, you gotta try this, man.”

“Dean,” Cas said lowly, voice strained. “We’re. In. Public.” His eyes darted around nervously.

“Okay, okay. But I think it works.” And Dean gave him a salacious wink. Castiel’s blush made Dean burst out into laughter.

Surprisingly, only an hour and a half had passed and they had already exhausted all Brookstone had to offer. They wandered around the airport until they found a Hudson News store, one of those airport chain bookstores.

“Dean, I already have a book. Coming in here seems redundant, if anything.”

“C’mon Cas, you can’t seriously think the point of these places is to buy books.” He was met with an unamused stare. He steered Cas into the store and found what he was looking for. “So what size do you want this “I HEART LA” shirt to be in? Or would you prefer a coffee mug?” Dean held up an XL, deep purple shirt with giant yellow block letters.

“I live here, Dean, I hardly think I need-”

“Cas, I’m hurt. You don’t like my gift ideas?” He clutched at his chest and frowned exaggeratedly.

“Dean.” Cas rolled his eyes.

“Right, okay. Where to next? Lead the way if you’re such an LAXpert.” Dean grinned and Cas groaned.

“God, I sincerely hope I never read anything you’ve written. That pun was terrible.” Cas shook his head softly. Dean could see a small smile playing on his lip and it made him feel a little bit warm and fuzzy inside.

“Trust me, you’re probably not in my target demographic.” Dean put the shirt back on the rack and knelt down to look at the little LA snowglobes which didn’t make much sense to him. Did it even snow in LA?

“Won’t you just tell me what it is? I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

“Sorry, Cas, no dice.” Dean gave a helpless shrug. Cas’ brow furrowed.

“Fine. I’ll simply google it.” He pulled out his phone and his glasses case from inside his hideous coat. Dean watched, amused, as Cas’ eyes squinted at the screen in concentration. He methodically tapped out each letter with his pointer finger, the way Dean’s pretty sure most old people do. He muttered to himself unhappily.

“Having some issues there, gramps?” Dean stood back up and peered over Cas’ shoulder at his phone. Cas turned around to face Dean, a frown etched on his face.

“I am most decidedly not a fan of technology.” He looked back at his phone. “In any case, there are no Dean Winchesters that have written any books.”

“The beauty of a pseudonym, my friend.”

 

“That’s hardly fair.” Cas crossed his arms over his chest defiantly. Dean’s eyes tracked the movement and he focused on Cas’ sweater. His blue tie had come untucked from underneath.

“You know your tie is backwards?” Cas looked down at his tie. He met Dean’s eyes, confused.

“What do you mean, this is how I always wear it.” Dean laughed, God, if that wasn’t the most endearing thing he’d ever heard.

“Man, you really are hopeless. Here, let me help you.” Dean leaned over, crowding Cas into one of the nearby shelves. He licked his lips nervously as he lifted up Cas’ stiff collar and readjusted his tie. “No one ever taught you how to tie a tie?” Dean’s fingers busied themselves with the silky blue material. Cas stared up at him, blue eyes locked with Dean’s. He had a slight blush on his cheeks.

“No, my father wasn’t around much.” His eyes dropped from Dean’s and focused on Dean’s lips instead. Dean could swear he heard a hitch in Cas’ breath.

“Deadbeat dads, gotta love ‘em.” He finished with the tie and with a surprising amount of willpower, stepped back from Cas, giving him space to rearrange his slightly rumpled clothes.

“Thank you.” Cas said, smoothing down his sweater, and Dean could swear his voice was a little breathier than it used to be.

The last hour went by faster than either Dean or Cas would have liked. They merely sat in uncomfortable seats at a random gate, people watching, discussing favorite books, foods, and they even shared some large McDonalds fries. Cas put up quite the argument, saying how it wasn’t healthy, how it would mess with this whole diet thing he had going. “The lady doth protest too much, methinks,” Dean simply replied, placing a fry centimeters from Cas’ lips. Cas held out for a solid minute until the tantalizing smell got to him and he wolfed down more of the container than Dean. They passed the time so well, in fact, that Dean didn’t hear his flight being called to board until it was last call.

“Shit! Fuck, that’s my flight. Fuck, fuck, I can’t miss it.” Dean hastily gathered up his things, flinging his computer bag over his shoulder. He couldn’t find his ticket for the life of him. He dug around his carryon, patted down his pants, and rifled through his jacket, but it was nowhere to be found. “Cas, my ticket, I don’t-” Cas waved the boarding pass in front of Dean’s face, a smug smile on his face.

“Calm down, Dean, you’ll be fine.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Cas. Thanks for this, for everything.” Cas had stuck out his hand for a cordial goodbye, but Dean pushed it aside and wrapped his arms around him in a big hug. “Maybe we’ll see each other again some day,” Dean said, his face pressed against the side of Cas’ head.

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Cas pulled away and gave Dean a small smile. “Now go, you’re going to miss the flight.” Cas had to physically push Dean away for Dean to tear his eyes from Cas.

“Right, yeah. I’ll, um, I’ll see you.” He said softly and gave a slight wave.

 

“Dean, go.” With that, Dean turned away from Castiel, the guy who was a stranger no more than three hours ago. He left Cas and his pristine copy of Cat’s Cradle, his bright blue eyes, inability to tie a tie, and his bulky trenchcoat.

Dean made it to the gate in the nick of time. The flight attendants were just about to stop boarding when Dean arrived. His breathing was fast and shallow and he was really regretting eating those fries. Everything worked out though, just like Cas said it would, he boarded the plane and sheepishly made his way to his seat, aware that all the other passenger’s eyes were on him.

Once in his seat, Dean’s heartbeat finally started to steady. He didn’t feel as nervous about flying this time around, but still, better safe than sorry. He dug around in his pocket to find his bottle of sleeping pills. He searched for awhile until he remembered Cas still had them in that goddamn coat of his. “That bastard,” Dean muttered.

“Excuse me?” The older woman to his right glared at him, horrified.

“Oh, um, sorry.” Dean blushed. But still, the bastard had kept his pills. Sure it was for his “well-being” or whatever, but how was Dean supposed to survive the flight. However, the more Dean thought of Castiel, the more his thoughts began to wander away from worrying about the flight and instead focused more on the fact that he hadn’t gotten Cas’ number. Dammit, how could he have been so dumb. As far as Dean was concerned, the two of them had really hit it off. Unless, they really hadn’t and Dean had made an ass out of himself the whole time. Probably the case, Dean conceded. Dean’s spirits fell as quickly as they had risen. He’d really liked that guy.

He studied his hands as the plane pulled out of the gate and began to taxi to the runway. The familiar fear was beginning to close around his insides again. Dean preoccupied himself by reading his ticket. The engines began whirring and Dean could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. This wasn’t working, Dean let the ticket fall to the floor. He leaned his head back and took deep, calming breaths. The panic was rising in his throat, he could feel it starting to choke him. He hated planes so fucking much. Maybe he had some spare pills in his bag. So Dean bent down to rummage through his bag, ignoring the exasperated huffs of the old woman on his right side. She was clearly not amused with his inability to sit still.

When Dean leaned down to go through his bag, something on the back of the ticket caught his eye. He picked it up to examine it further. Written on the back of his boarding pass, in a neat scrawl were the words “In case you need an angel on any given Thursday” and a phone number.

“That bastard,” Dean said out loud again. He couldn’t stop himself from grinning, even when the old lady made a fuss again. Something about the youth these days and their rotten manners.

The flight didn’t even phase Dean. He even made significant progress on his story. He decided the angel would have really bad bedhead, stunning blue eyes, and a hideous, yet endearing trenchcoat. The story became about an angel lost in the world who found himself and a place to belong in a simple human man with green eyes. Dean exited the plane with a full notebook and a new contact in his phone.

 

Dean, Charlie, and the rest of the publishers sat around the boardroom table waiting for the illustrator to show up. The guy was already running 15 minutes late. Dean grumbled to Charlie. He had been in a good mood that morning, Cas hadn’t responded to his text message yet, but he figured that was natural. But his good spirits were tainted with annoyance for this guy who was supposed to be Dean’s partner on his next book. He had to fly up to Seattle for him and he didn’t have the ability to be punctual? Yeah, no thanks, they could find a new illustrator for all Dean cared.

“Trust me, Dean, you’ll like him. He’s one of the best in the business.” Charlie tried to reassure him.

“Oh, so he’s too good to show up on time? He’s an asshole if you ask me and he can shove his colored pencils up his ass.” Dean angrily stared out the window.

“I’m sorry, I can shove what where?” That deep, raspy voice was familiar. No, it couldn’t be, Dean thought. He spun around in his seat to see Castiel standing in the doorway.

“Cas?” Dean asked, mouth agape.

“Dean? You’re Carver Edlund?” Dean was sure Cas’ face was mirroring his own right now.

“You two, uh, know each other?” Charlie interrupted. But both Dean and Cas had ignored her, instead they were hugging in the doorway.

“Man, I’m so happy to see you. I hated myself for not getting your number and then I saw yours on the ticket.”

“I was meaning to text you back but I was having transportation issues, as you can see by my tardiness.” They broke out of the hug and stared at each other. Charlie cleared her throat pointedly and they sat down at the table with a few muttered apologies.

“Now that Mr. Novak has decided to grace us with his presence, shall we carry on?” The publisher at the head of the table said.

“Uh, yeah, sure.” Dean grabbed his notebook from his bag. “So these were my ideas for the story.” He slid the notebook over to the three publishers on his left. They each nodded in turn and it finally made its way to Cas. Dean was suddenly embarrassed, remembering what he had written and who was currently poring over it. He could feel his face growing hot.

Cas met his eyes and grasped his hand on the table. “Dean, I really love it. It’s great.”

The meeting ran smoothly, albeit Dean and Cas paid more attention to each other than to the story. There may have been some footsie going on under the table that Charlie had to put an end to, but other than that, it was productive. They ended in record time, it was rare, the publishers had commented, to have an illustrator and writer so willing to collaborate. Charlie herded them both out of the room when the meeting ended, she left them standing in the hallway with a couple of comments about how “this was a place where children’s stories were written” and to “keep it PG.” Dean rolled his eyes.

The two of them stood facing each other in the hall, grinning stupidly, unable to do anything but stare at each other for probably an unreasonable amount of time.

“Uh, so,” Dean finally began, “I would really like to see you again.”

“Does dinner tonight work, or would you prefer another airport?” Cas deadpanned.

“Dinner, please.”

“Shall we go now?” Cas asked.

“Lead the way.” Dean followed Cas down the hall.

 

When they reached the bottom floor and the front doors, Cas stopped. He turned to Dean, a frown on his face.

“What, what’s wrong?” Dean asked, worried.

“I don’t suppose you have an umbrella. The weather is, less than satisfactory.” Cas nodded toward outside where it was pouring rain. He looked at the rain with trepidation. Dean laughed to himself, what a Californian.

“Uh, I don’t, but we’ll run for it. Put your trenchcoat to use.C’mon, grab my hand.” They latched hands and Cas pressed himself closer to Dean as Dean opened up the glass door. “One, two, three, go!” They ran out into the rainstorm and to the nearest restaurant they could find.


End file.
